


be lying if i said you ain't the one

by brophigenia



Series: Pynch Week 2018 [6]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Bondage, Control Kink, Day 6: Restraint, Future Fic, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Macramé, Masturbation, Pynch Week, Pynch Week 2018, Sexual Fantasy, i DARE you to tell me adam doesn't have SUPER DETAILED fantasies, post trk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-19 00:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15498345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: The week that Ronan and Blue take up macrame is the week that Adam realizes he may have a Thing for rope. And Ronan. Ronanwithrope.(Literally exactly what it sounds like.)





	be lying if i said you ain't the one

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking of taking up macrame. Any of y'all do macrame??

The week that Ronan and Blue take up macrame is the week that Adam realizes he may have a Thing for rope. And Ronan. Ronan  _ with  _ rope. 

He’s in Berkeley, thousands of miles away, immersed in culture and information and  _ sunshine;  _ he never really believed he’d make it out of Henrietta, so every day he wakes up in his narrow dorm bed is a day where he walks around so terribly  _ satisfied  _ by it all. 

He never thought he’d make it out of Henrietta, and he  _ definitely  _ never thought that he’d  _ miss  _ Henrietta, if he ever did make it out. 

It’s not so much  _ Henrietta  _ he misses as it is  _ Ronan  _ and  _ Gansey  _ and  _ Blue  _ and  _ Opal  _ and the Barns. Ronan had pressed an impossible cell phone into his hands the morning he’d left, something with a ridiculously-high-definition screen and no need to be charged. Its ring sounds like Chainsaw’s squawk and it vibrates in the pattern of Ronan’s heartbeat, and Adam sometimes just takes it out and holds it in his hands because Ronan  _ dreamt it for him _ . It is a tangible reminder that there are people in the world who want him to stay in touch, people who want him to come home to them. 

Ronan still doesn’t like to text or call, but he doesn’t mind FaceTime. It’s one of the little dichotomies that make up his entire personality, another tic on the list of _ Reasons Adam Parrish Loves Ronan Lynch.  _

Adam is studying for his  _ AST 225: Politics and Literature of Japan  _ midterm when Ronan and Blue FaceTime him from the living room at the Barns, surrounded by cordage and sticks and empty bottles of craft beer. Their cheeks are pink. They’re  _ giggling,  _ though he’s sure they’d both object to the descriptor 

“Adam!” Blue sings out, and he smiles absently down at his notes. 

“Parrish.” Ronan says, so satisfied just to say his surname that it makes Adam smile even wider, unable to resist peeking up to where his phone is propped up at the edge of his desk. There are a few pieces of cordage draped around Ronan’s neck like how fancy women wear their scarves in old movies, trailing and elegant. Adam gets stuck for a second at the sight, furrowing his eyebrows and considering the sight of the rope against Ronan’s fair skin. 

It’s only a quick second, and then he listens to Ronan complaining about  _ DIY shit _ while Blue shows off the slightly lopsided  _ wall hangings  _ they’ve made so far. Then it devolves into them seeing who can balance a half-full bottle of beer on their foreheads the longest, and before Adam knows it he’s worked through all of his notes and it’s time for bed. Ronan and Blue are still going, sluggishly tying knots and snickering, listing off to one side, bleary-eyed. 

He aces the midterm, his last, and gets a six-pack of glass bottle Cokes to celebrate, thinking of his nickname to the women of 300 Fox Way and of the indulgence of buying something pointlessly more expensive than its cheaper counterpart, just for the arguable difference in taste. It’s silly, but it makes him smile. 

Back at the dorm he FaceTimes with Ronan for a bit; GanseyHenryandBlue are still visiting, Blue off with the psychics and Henry off visiting the Vancouver crew  _ (the Vancrewver!)  _ and Gansey wearing his wireframes when Ronan flips the camera to show him off, all furrowed brow and attention focused upon the book in his hands. Adam expects it to be something like  _ the Civilization and Extinction of the Aztec People  _ and laughs loudly when he realizes it’s actually an Agatha Christie novel. 

Ronan shows off some more of the macrame creations, including what was  _ supposed  _ to be a ‘decorative wooden spoon cover’ but in all actuality looks more like a knitted condom. Ronan swears goodnaturedly at him when Adam points this out, and threatens to mail it to him.

They hang up and Adam lays on his back grinning up at the ceiling for a while, covering the expression with his hand. Ronan  _ fucking _ Lynch. 

It’s a night of celebration, so after a while of dopily smiling at nothing, Adam starts  _ imagining things.  _

When he was younger he’d imagine entire new lives for himself, elaborate fantasies of domesticity and victory and  _ vindication.  _

This, of course, naturally progressed into  _ sexual  _ fantasies of domesticity and victory and vindication. When he was younger he’d imagine a life where he drove the best car, had the prettiest girlfriend, the most prestigious job. He’d imagine girls who looked like Kate Upton, lush and blonde and long-legged. The kind of woman who always played the gorgeous, devoted trophy wife in movies. Then he’d imagine Blue, his  _ girlfriend  _ when none of the other Aglionby guys could get her to look twice at them, a different sort of trophy. It made him ashamed to think about, now, but back then it hadn’t seemed so dehumanizing, so objectifying. 

He’d moved more away from that sort of fantasizing in recent years, but the  _ world-building  _ aspect still remained. He’d always had a vivid imagination. 

Now he imagined the Barns, recalling it perfectly in his mind. He imagined coming  _ home  _ to the Barns, wearing the kind of easy business suit that some men wore like a suit of armor and others like a pair of sweatpants. He wanted that. He wanted to feel at ease in expensive tailoring. In this fantasy, he  _ did.  _ He got out of his nice car, walked up the steps already loosening his tie a bit, heeling off his shoes carelessly in the foyer, hanging up his messenger bag on a hook put there specially for the purpose. The house smelled good, like takeout. There would be his favorite order of Thai in one of the cartons still bagged on the counter. Ronan would’ve ordered it for him without even asking, because he didn’t have to ask. 

There would be food on the counter and the controlled chaos of the Barns turned into something that showed Adam’s presence there, too. He’d be in the cluttered photographs, his laundry mixed with Ronan’s in the basket, his favorite brand of water (and wasn’t that novel, to get to have a  _ favorite water?)  _ in the fridge. 

And there would be  _ Ronan,  _ maybe fresh from working out- no. No, he’d be coming inside from taking care of the animals, feeding the cows and chickens and goats. Maybe repairing a bit of fenceline. Wearing his low-slung work pants and his gumboots, spattered with mud and grass. Smelling like the outdoors, maybe a bit sunburnt on his shoulders, exposed from wearing one of those cutouts he was so fond of, showing off all his toned arms and the bulk of his ribs, his waist. 

He’d come up, mutter something like  _ hey Parrish  _ and wrap his arms around Adam’s neck, kiss him hello all sweaty and real. And Adam would… Adam would still be dressed and he’d get Ronan naked right there in the kitchen, strip off his sweaty clothes and his filthy boots and he’d be  _ naked,  _ rawboned and a vulnerable contrast to Adam’s tailored suit. But it wasn’t about Ronan being  _ vulnerable-  _ it was about, it was  _ Adam,  _ Adam being in  _ control,  _ still dressed and  _ in control.  _

He’d pull Ronan into their bedroom, lay him out in their sheets, Egyptian cotton like in a fancy hotel, something breathable and  _ soft  _ and in a color that would contrast well with Ronan’s skintone… maybe black? Was that too cliche? Probably. Sapphire blue, then, and the walls would be like, a dark gray, something masculine but still  _ neutral,  _ that was important for a wall to be, and Ronan would gasp and Adam would put his mouth on Ronan, take his cock into his  _ throat  _ until he was moaning and couldn’t stop, straining against the ropes-

Adam paused, eyes opening. He blinked at the ceiling. Ropes? And he was self-aware enough to realize that he’d had it in the back of his mind since they’d FaceTimed the other night and he’d seen the cords draped over Ronan’s skin, but what did it say about him, that this was what he wanted? 

He tried to think straight about it and ultimately decided to table contemplating the ethics of tying up his boyfriend in favor of going back to fantasizing about tying up his boyfriend. 

So he had Ronan’s cock in his mouth, and Ronan was straining against the ropes tying him to the headboard, maybe tying him down to the  _ mattress,  _ too, so he couldn’t move his hips up. He just had to lie there and  _ take it,  _ and it wasn’t even about Ronan  _ submitting,  _ so much as Adam being responsible enough, being  _ in control enough,  _ to be trusted with this. With tying  _ Ronan Lynch _ up, the untameable boy. 

And maybe he’d pull back, and Ronan would swear at him and his cock would be  _ so hard  _ and  _ so red  _ and he’d groan and try to move to get friction but he’d be immobilized by the ropes and he wouldn’t be able to, and he wouldn’t tell Adam to let him go. Because he’d  _ want it too.  _

Adam jackknifed up and came messily all over his stomach, his shirt, a bit on his chin. He lay gasping and mindless, vision whited out and nothing in his ears but the rushing of his own blood, the pounding of his own heart, for a long few minutes, recovering. 

He came to and realized that his phone was buzzing next to him. He fumbled it from his pocket and answered. Ronan’s voice in his ear was that happy-complaining tone he had when he’d had a long day and he was in a good mood and just wanted to bitch about nothing. Adam listened to him and only supplied the occasional  _ hmm  _ and  _ ahh  _ and  _ really?  _ until Ronan ran out of steam. 

“The fuck is up with you, Parrish?” Ronan asked, and it sounded like he was cooking something, maybe, glass and metal clattering around. 

“Can I tie you up sometime?” Adam blurted, and then groaned, covering his eyes. He hadn’t meant to say that. Ronan went silent on the other line, and Adam could picture his expression perfectly when he spoke. Squinting, surveying. Hawkish. 

“Yeah, okay.” Ronan conceded. “Like,  _ I guess.” _ He chuckled a little, incredulous and  _ fond.  _ The kind of laugh that Adam adored at ridiculous levels. “God, Parrish. You’re something-fuckin-else.” 

Adam laughed a little, too, despite his burning cheeks and thundering heart. “Yeah, I love you too, asshole.” He grumbled. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
